The Gospel of Baseball

I still remember the late afternoon my Daddy came home from the hardware store with my first baseball glove. That's it, a Max Alvis Fieldmaster made by Wilson. Mr. Alvis, in case you're wondering, played in the Major Leagues from 1962 through 1970, making the All Star team twice along the way.

Had Mr. Alvis seen me playing, he probably would have shipped me a glove endorsed by another Big Leaguer. Probably by his least favorite teammate or by an opponent he really didn't like. I tried, Mr. Alvis, but i didn't represent you very well. Sorry about that!

I had big dreams, Major League dreams, but the closest I got to baseball stardom was being a member of our church men's softball team. Some games I played second base, others they put me at third, and every now and then, I took a spot in the outfield. Mostly second or third, with second being my favorite.

Talent did not get me on the team, that's for sure. It's just that it's hard to tell a church member that they're not welcome on the church team, especially when it's a small church and you're scraping to get enough players. Plus, my family owned a Chevrolet Suburban that could serve as a small church bus to haul us around to games. So, I got a jersey and took the field for the good guys.

The truth is that I was actually something of an offensive threat. No, that doesn't mean I could hit well. Rather, it means that most church league pitchers were bound to throw four pitches outside my tiny strike zone, if, that is, I could practice enough self-control to not swing my bat. "A walk's as good as a hit!" they'd tell me as I grabbed my aluminum bat and stepped to the plate. What they should have done is to take the thing away from me and tell me just to stand there. Or they could have duct taped my arms to my side so there was no way I could get the bat in motion.

I'd like to say I was at least a "weak bat, good glove" kind of a player, you know, one who was really good in the field. But, no, I could boot the most routine grounder and pop-ups - even little flares looped into the infield - were often adventures for me. Let's just say that the team was hoping the ball wasn't coming my way if there were runners on base with a couple of outs in the last inning with us clinging to a lead. They were way too nice to tell me that they were out there having a Prayer Vigil, "Please, dear Lord, let it go to anyone but Herbie," but I know good and well the air was filled with heavenly petitions.

It really shouldn't have taken so long to kill my dream that the Atlanta Braves would send a scout to the church league and I would get discovered. Yes, I should have been able to accurately assess my lack of production on the field. You'd also think the fact that I was either wearing Coke bottle thick glasses or contact lenses might have given me a clue. Or that when I was in 8th grade the eye doctor told me that I have no depth perception. That's right; the world is "flat" to me, which might explain why fly balls were a calamity in the making, even in the world of church league softball.

So, after college, I put up the bat and the glove and resigned myself to watching other people play baseball. I've discovered that I truly love the game. I love tracking the standings over the course of a six month, 162 game regular season, and I am fascinated by the box scores and statistics of both players and teams. I love that the game is truly a game of controlled failure, especiallly for batters, as they will return hitless to the dugout 70% or more of the time. But the next time up, they grab the bat and give it another go. No team goes undefeated; in fact, even the best lose a third or more of their games, but they keep focused and remain positive.

Now, as September gets ready to slip into October, the playoffs are upon us. Twelve teams remain and my hometown heroes, the Atlanta Braves, are among them. Those 162 games already played mean nothing now. It's a brand new season, and anybody can get hot and claim the World Series. All that counts is right now, the game about to be played.

There's something very Gospel in that for me. The Apostle Paul told the Christians in Philippi, Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus (Philippians 3:13,14, ESV). His fomer failings meant nothing; nor did his triumphs. His accomplishments, his titles, his reputation - forget it all. The man was focused on serving Jesus in the present and in looking forward to the promise of eternity. He had no time for the past, whatever the past was. Because of Jesus, it just didn't matter.

And that's the Gospel of baseball. Fresh starts, new beginnings, pressing on wherever Christ leads us.

Now, just in case the Braves need a second baseman, they can find me right down here at Fort Valley Methodist Church in Middle Georgia. My Max Alvis Fieldmaster is ready to go!